Birthday
by chocolatechipbunnies
Summary: Sam sat up in a bed he had never felt before, and scanned a room he had never seen before with bleary eyes. He squinted at the crumpled pile of sheets next to him; Dean was gone, and so was Dad. Rubbing his forehead and sighing, he sat up, his toes grazing the floor. He wasn't surprised no one remembered he was 12 years old today. Written after episode 3 of season 8. Ficlet-per-ep!


It was grey and cold and storming, and Dean and Dad were on a hunt. Or something. Sam honestly didn't know where they went; he just knew that he was alone. Which wasn't surprising, either; he knew the protocol: stay put, stay safe.

Sam spent days like these reading books and watching the windows seem to melt under the heavy spring downpour. He flipped through the pages distractedly, keeping one ear alert for the sound of a rumbling engine. He tried to read, but the words might as well have been in another language. He threw his book down and flung himself on the creaky motel bed, staring blankly at a crack in the ceiling.

Sometimes it wouldn't bother him that his dad and his brother would forget his birthday. He knew that there were much more important things to worry about, like saving people, or something like that. He guessed that was more important. It had to be. Last year they both forgot when he turned 11. He decided not to mention it for awhile, until Dad had asked how old he was when he was registering for one of the countless schools he and Dean had been in.

Sometimes they would remember. And Sam would remember when they did. When he was 6, his dad had given him an old soccer ball, and Dean had moved around the scarce motel furniture to make some goal posts. Being careful not to break any lamps or windows, he and Dean kicked that ball back and forth for hours, and he still remembered the stars fading with the first rays of the morning sun through the window.

Sometimes Sam got angry. What was so hard about remembering a birthday? Sam always knew when Dean's birthday was, and even when his Dad's was. It wasn't even about presents, anymore; Sam knew better than to expect to have things now. Why couldn't his family be normal about one stupid thing for once in his life?

Most of the time, Sam would have a tight feeling in his stomach all day. Maybe it was the anticipation, the fight to not get his hopes up because they would probably be let down, the fight that he always lost. Today was one of those times. His stomach was in knots, and the more he thought about it, the more his breath escaped his lips in short huffs. He wasn't going to cry. He was 12 for God's sake, he was not going to cry. His fingers tightened around a handful of cheap motel sheets, and the crack in the ceiling blurred in and out of focus. He felt a hot tear sting his cheek and whimpered.

And that was when the door flew open, banging against the doorstop with a crash. Dean shut the door, struggling against the force of the wailing wind. He shook his head and hands, and water droplets sprinkled the room. "Hey, Sammy-" he started. Sam sat up with a jolt, pursing his lips together in a hard line and wiping his cheek. He prayed to God that Dean didn't notice he was crying. Dean cocked his head, dropping his coat on the floor and laying a small box on the table. "Whatsa matter? You been cryin' over some chick flick while we were gone?" he snickered. Dean always knew.

Sam sniffled. "No," he said stubbornly, although the sudden nasal tone of his voice wasn't very convincing. Dean sat down on the bed next to him, his eyebrows raised. He shrugged when Sam didn't elaborate. After a beat of silence, Sam asked quietly, "Where's Dad?"

Dean blinked. "He's on a job tonight," he replied, staring at the wall.

"Well why are you back? Didn't you go with?"

There was a smirk that crept into his brother's lips. "Nope."

Sam was suddenly interested and annoyed at Dean's ambiguity. Why wasn't he here with him then? Why was he alone? "Well…where were you?" Sam's voice wavered then, despite him trying to hide how upset he was.

Dean watched his brother struggle to hide his frustration, and the fact that he had been crying. He rose from the bed and strode across the room, and Sam's eyes followed him in frustration. "I was baking," he called nonchalantly from the tiny kitchen.

Sam's face scrunched up like he had bitten into a lemon. "You were _baking_," he repeated, not really knowing what to think about that.

"What, you need your ears checked now?" Dean returned to the bed, but his face was stretched into a huge, goofy grin. He was holding a small box, which he placed on the bed. Sam blinked a few times, not moving. "Well, c'mon! Open it!" Dean urged, waving his hands.

Sam eyed the beaten up white box skeptically, half expecting a skunk or a snake or something stupid to leap out of it. He lifted the lid and gazed inside, and his eyes widened.

A…shape? He didn't know how to describe it—an amorphous blob of cake, sloppily frosted with white icing, stared back at him. He squinted, deciphering the blue symbols and forms on top of it—_Happy Birthday, Sammy!_ Sam's face broke into a giant grin. "Wh, what is this?" he asked, almost laughing.

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Well geez, it's supposed to be a cake. Didn't think it was that bad—"

Sam cut him off. "Did you make this?"

Dean paused, licking his lips. "Well…yeah. No one ever told me how to make a cake, I mean, I had to go around all day lookin' for…y'know, cake stuff, so that's why I couldn't-"

Dean suddenly stopped when he felt Sam's arms around him. "Th-thanks," he heard Sam's voice waver into his shirt. Dean closed his eyes, drawing his little brother closer. He could feel his little shoulders trying their hardest not to shake.

"Happy Birthday, Sammy," Dean said quietly. He let go of Sam, and they both sat on the bed watching the cake. "So…you wanna sing Happy Birthday, or…"

Sam laughed. "No, thanks. It's weird if it's just one person,"

Dean chuckled as he rose to his feet. "I hear ya," he said, going to the tiny kitchen to get some forks. Sam's face hurt from grinning, and he suddenly felt very warm. He heard Dean softly humming "Happy Birthday" from the kitchen.


End file.
